


Mirror, Dreamer, King

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - The Raven Cycle, Canon-Typical Violence, more than canon-typical swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Every psychic Martin has ever met has told him one thing: that if he kisses his true love, his true love will die.Every psychic Jon has ever met has told him two things: that he will come into wealth, which was true, and that he will find something greater than what he's searching for, which he's afraid might be.Darkness stalks the ley line Jon walks along. Darkness stalks Henrietta and the people within. Darkness stalks the prize Jon seeks, and the rest are caught up in the hunt.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, The Gang Is Friends With Each Other
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	1. prologue

Since the age of ten, Martin has been told by every psychic he's ever met that he is destined to kill his true love.

He's been brought before palm readers, had his cards read dozens of times, had his birth chart examined and re-examined and re-re-examined, and each person told him the same thing. They were always so sure of it, a grim set to their features when they gave the news.

Every single one said it the same way: _If you kiss your true love, he will die._

Martin Blackwood's family trades in fortunes. His mother, not by birth, reads the cards of just about anyone from the dusty old armchair seated at the head of their crowded dining table. Martin knows this business, the business of psychics, and he knows that oftentimes it is a vague piece of advice, an indefinite detail such as the number eight or the promise that poor health is on its way.

The clients could later handwave the number eight on the water bill as a coincidence, or recognize a cold overtaking the household as fulfillment of the prediction.

Predictions and fortunes and tarot card readings are meant to be vague things for the recipient to interpret as they see fit, and yet Martin has received the same specific every single time. When he was younger, he wondered if his true love would die heroically, giving him one final kiss before giving his life--a result of fairytales and the countless stories of princes Martin would read. By age thirteen, he fretted that he'd had some lethal disease that would only make itself known when he kissed someone, and by age sixteen he'd decided that it was all a bunch of horseshit, and he wasn't going to kiss anyone anyways.

His mother Angelica had laughed when he'd said this, said he was _a sensible boy, sweetheart._ Martin figured he was just resigned and afraid, but he would take sensible over that.

Angelica wasn't his birth mother, but Martin had never known the woman and quite truthfully didn't want to. The father had been out of the picture before he'd even been born, and Martin wouldn't remember any of the seven months he'd spent with the woman before being given up for adoption.

His mother has been his mother for as long as he can remember, even if his pale skin and bright ginger curls are a far cry from her darker complexion and her long, black braids. He doesn't have a father--his mum isn't interested in men anyways--or another parent to speak of, unless you counted the countless other women living in 300 Fox Way, the home base of the Blackwood family in Henrietta, Virginia.

He likes to think he lives a comfortable existence, despite the lack of true financial stability and the looming threat of impending doom for anyone he gets too close to.

Martin Blackwood is a sensible boy, and this is the year he falls in love.


	2. i. martin

It is _unbelievably_ cold.

Of course, there's always more to it than that, but that is Martin's most pressing concern, seated on the freezing stone brick wall that fences in the old St. Paul church. The wind is icy and biting, and he clenches his fists to try and warm his bare fingers. He really should have worn gloves, and if it were his mother sitting beside him she would have clicked her tongue and said _'I told you so'_ , but instead it is Annabelle sitting beside him and so she says nothing, just stares at him a touch condescendingly.

He sticks his tongue out at her, and she snorts and shakes her head.

This is one of their oddest and most secretive services at Fox Way--the death forecast, Martin likes to call it, though most others in the house act affronted when he says it. Once a year, on St. Mark's Eve, Martin will accompany one of the three heads of the household--Angelica, Annabelle, or Agnes--to the St. Paul church to watch the soon-to-be dead.

Martin can't actually see them. He's never possessed whatever ability the rest of the Blackwood family seems to have, something he blames on being adopted, although there's probably more to it than that.

Ordinarily, Annabelle would not be able to identify those that walk along the corpse road that runs through the clearing and up to the doors of the church. Which is why Martin is here, he thinks to himself begrudgingly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his worn hoodie. It does little to block out the chill of the evening April air. There's a hole in one of his pockets, he notes distantly, gazing out over the empty churchyard.

The moon is nearly full, casting a bright silver light into the clearing. It outlines and sharpens the edges of Annabelle's figure, poised on the edge of the wall with her legs crossed, the picture of elegance next to Martin's huddled, shivering form.

Bitterly, Martin thinks she might not even _feel_ the cold.

"Anything yet?" He finally asks, if only to break the silence, and Annabelle huffs.

"I'll tell you when they get here," she says brusquely, knowing full well that it won't stop Martin from asking again in another ten minutes if nothing has happened yet.

Annabelle traces in the dirt, three arcing lines that intersect each other, and Martin stares down at the odd little triangle.

"What is that?" He looks up at Annabelle, who shrugs.

"Hopefully nothing. Definitely something." Her gaze flicks out over the churchyard again. "Ah. Here we go. Get your pen."

Martin digs his pen out of his pocket, picking up the notebook with a short sigh out his nostrils. Annabelle hums as she leans forward, peering at the soon-to-be deceased, while Martin stares at an empty churchyard and a waiting notebook.

"Oh, Oliver Banks," Annabelle says, and Martin scribbles down the name. Annabelle continues. "Tova McKinnon. Lily Farrows. What's your name? Ian Riley."

Martin continues to write, taking his best guess at some of the spelling as Annabelle lists names, occasionally breaking the pattern to ask for one.

"Excuse me," she says petulantly, leaning forward. "What's your name?"

Martin follows her gaze out of habit, not expecting to see anything, making it all the more shocking when he _does._

There's a boy there, standing uncertain, hunched over and clutching at his arms. Martin stares, mouth hanging open a bit--he can see him.

_"Excuse me,"_ Annabelle snaps again.

"Annabelle, I can see him," Martin says, awed.

"Well, go get his name!" Annabelle snaps at him, now, and Martin doesn't need to be asked twice. He hops down from the wall, abandoning the notebook and pen on the wall as he cautiously makes his way towards the figure in the center of the churchyard.

He can't make out any details of the face, or any details in general, really. There is a boy where there should not be one, and everything about him is faded and smudged and dull and Martin wouldn't be able to identify him even if he tried to.

"Excuse me," he says softly, stepping up in front of the boy, and he feels eyes on him with a sudden, burning intensity that's almost frightening. He swallows. "Who are you?"

The boy looks confused, though Martin isn't sure how he can tell. The only identifying thing about him is the Magnus Academy sweater he wears, shoulders spattered with rain. "Who are you?" Martin repeats again.

"The Archivist." The boy says, uncertainly, entire form shuddering in a way that feels wrong.

Martin can't help but frown. "What's your name?"

The boy pauses. "... Jon."

Martin quirks an eyebrow. "Is that… is that it?"

"That's all that matters," Jon says, and the intense gaze that prickles the hairs on the back of Martin's neck recedes.

He falls to his knees, form flickering again, clawing his fingers into the dirt of the churchyard. There are no marks left in the dirt as he rakes his hands through it. Martin steps back, unable to tear his gaze away.

"Annabelle, he's - he's dying."

"They do that," she says, coming up next to him. He jumps at her sudden presence.

They watch the boy convulse soundlessly, formlessly, void of any defining features and void of a meaningful name.

* * *

Martin does not enjoy being scolded.

It doesn't make him reconsider his actions, doesn't make him feel bad, it just gets annoying, and he knows his mother feels the same. She's not upset or angry with him. They both comply with the dance because it's what they figure they're supposed to do. The slight, amused quirk to his mother's lips take away all the severity of her words.

"Just because you have plenty of energy doesn't mean you should just give it up like that. I've taught you all the protective techniques I know, Martin. _Use_ them." She passes him a mug of tea that smells horrendous.

"What's in this?" He asks by way of deflection, and Angelica waves a hand dismissively.

"Herbs," she says pointedly, "really, Martin, you can't just let ghosts sap your energy like a… a _battery_."

"Isn't that what you guys do when you do a reading with me there?" He pretends to take a sip. He thinks he might have just destroyed his sense of smell, putting his face that close to the tea.

Angelica huffs. "There's a difference between amplifying a connection and fueling something, dear."

Martin shrugs, sets the tea aside. Angelica raises an eyebrow, and he shakes his head vehemently. "It's terrible, mum."

She sighs. "It's not meant to taste good."

"Is it meant to do anything?"

"Clears migraines and sharpens clairvoyance, typically."

Martin sniffs the tea again with a grimace. "The only thing it's clearing is my sinuses."

Angelica hums with agreement, already drifting into a new topic. "Hey, have you seen Agnes around the house at all?"

He frowns. "Don't think so. Why?"

Angelica sighs, beginning to load up the dishwasher with the various things in the sink. "Just wondering. I haven't seen her all day. She's probably just out on some errand, or meeting that Jude woman she's been going on about."

"What happened to Jack?" Martin tilts his head, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Angelica shrugs, and that's all the answer Martin really needs.

He turns his attention to his phone as it buzzes, and remembers all too suddenly that there are people outside of Fox Way that acknowledge his existence.

**daisy - 10:38 A.M.**

are you skipping class without me

**daisy - 10:38 A.M.**

im gonna be so pissed off if you are

**martin - 10:39 A.M.**

Nah I'm taking a sick day

**daisy - 10:39 A.M.**

are you actually sick or is this a psychic thing

**martin - 10:39 A.M.**

I'm not a psychic

**daisy - 10:40 A.M.**

you didnt answer the question

**martin - 10:40 A.M.**

No comment

"Well, if you're going to be staying home, you can at least make yourself useful," Angelica finally speaks up again, shutting the dishwasher and slamming it when it doesn't click shut right away. "The twins are going to be out all day, which means we get free reign in the basement, and I've been meaning to sort through some of those old boxes down there."

Martin groans, all but dropping his phone on the table. "The basement's _disgusting_."

"It sure is!" Angelica says cheerfully, patting Martin's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go dig up some fun blackmail material."

He sighs, but doesn't argue, because God knows there will be blackmail material on Annabelle down there, and Angelica won't even bat an eye when he blatantly uses it later on to get away with staying out late again.

"You're a terrible influence on this family," Martin says in lieu of argument.

"I sure am!" Angelica says cheerfully, and the two of them make their way downstairs.

The basement is, quite frankly, disgusting. It's cold and dark, and possibly a little damp although Martin can't quite be sure of that one considering how it differs from area to area.

The work is simple but boring, sifting through boxes and tossing aside things that really ought to have been tossed years ago, putting aside things that may be useful, finding old shirts or blankets or boxes of photo albums that Angelica winces at and says _burn it_ or says _Agnes will hate it_ and _give it to her anyways._ They're about halfway through their first pile of boxes when they hear the front door open and slam shut.

"Angelica!" Annabelle shouts from upstairs, and Martin and Angelica sigh.

"What do you think she wants this time?" Angelica asks, already moving towards the stairs. Martin shrugs.

_"I'M NOT SHOUTING AGAIN!"_ Annabelle roars, and the two of them sigh in unison and scurry upstairs.

"What?" Angelica snaps as she shoves the door open, and Annabelle scowls as she so often does.

"There's a man who wants a reading," Annabelle says stiffly, gaze flicking to Martin. "I don't know if we should let him in the house."

There seems to be some deeper meaning to the entire exchange that Martin misses entirely, because Angelica's eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. "Bring him inside. I'll make it quick."

Their tones make it sound like they're discussing murder and not looking at some cards. Martin doesn't quite care to know why, and he's more preoccupied with trying to see the stranger past the front door. Annabelle turns around and swings it open, jerking her head to gesture for the man to come inside.

He's tall, thin, graying blond hair neatly combed back. He looks like a teacher, is the first thing to pop into Martin's mind. A very rich teacher, one that works at the Magnus Academy.

His train of thought is interrupted by his phone rudely buzzing in his pocket. Martin pulls it out with a sigh.

**daisy - 11:24 A.M.**

dude youre really missing out today melanie king just punched a dude in the hallway

what are you even doing?

**martin - 11:24 A.M.**

Psychic stuff

**daisy - 11:24 A.M.**

ah

dont kiss anybody

Martin snorts.

**martin - 11:25 A.M.**

I won't


	3. ii. jon

It is mid-morning and Jon is still not at school.

This isn't a habit he'd like to keep, thank you very much, but it's one he's been falling into more and more often, it seems. He sits in the front seat of his run-down 1969 Camaro (affectionately nicknamed the Pig) that his father hates but pretends not to, and clicks _play_ on the tape recorder again. Silence, the faint whistling of wind on a chilly Virginia night, and then--

_"Jon."_

His voice. And--

_"Is that… is that it?"_

Some stranger's voice.

_"That's all that matters,"_ Jon's voice says from the tape recorder, and then silence.

He hasn't been able to stop replaying it. It's just not _possible_ , because he hadn't said a damn word all night, and yet his voice still plays on the recorder with someone else's, and Jon can't help the thrill of fear and excitement in his chest at the thought that this is the first concrete evidence he's gotten in weeks.

He's about to press _play_ for the sixth time this morning when he feels rather than hears the awful dubstep coming from Tim's speakers as his black BMW rolls up behind the Camaro.

The sound bleeds from the open door as Georgie slides out of the passenger seat, tight brown curls neatly pulled back in a half-bun. Jon hasn't combed his hair since yesterday morning, and the way she looks at him tells him that that is not the only horrid thing about his appearance right now.

"I'm not making a habit of this," she says as she drops the McDonald's bag into his lap, and Jon just shoves the tape recorder into her hands as he takes his breakfast from her.

She gives him a quizzical stare, holding the tape recorder and blankly holding his gaze.

"Listen to it," he says instead of a proper greeting as Tim finally makes his way over, leaning on the edge of Jon's open window.

The two of them listen to the recording with tilted heads and sharp eyes as Jon's own voice sounds from it, then the stranger's. Jon takes the hashbrowns out of the bag as he speaks. "You know what I was doing when that was recorded?"

Georgie raises an eyebrow, Tim steals a hashbrown. Jon scowls, but continues. "Nothing. I wasn't doing anything, wasn't _saying_ anything. I was sitting here, freezing my ass off, listening to cars occasionally go by."

"Coincidence," Tim says, because it isn't one. None of them believe in coincidences, no matter how much they insist they might.

Jon hums his agreement as he takes a bite of his hashbrowns. "I just have no idea what it means."

Georgie shrugs. "Maybe nothing. Time's weird on ley lines, right?"

Tim yawns with mock-boredom. Jon rolls his eyes at him and answers Georgie's question as if Tim weren't there at all.

"Sometimes, yes. Different moments in time can be recorded and picked up in different ways." He grins up at Georgie. "Tell me, Barker. Three things that can be found near ley lines."

She huffs, but indulges him. "Black dogs, demonic presences, ghosts."

"English schoolboys," Tim interjects. Jon rolls his eyes.

"It's strange, but I can't figure out what to do with it." Jon taps the windowsill impatiently, putting the bag on the passenger's seat.

Tim gives him a _look_ , as if he's being very stupid. "Well, that's obvious."

Georgie and Jon just look at him, both confused by the certainty in his tone. He just raises his eyebrows at them and hands the recorder back to Jon, after he'd snatched it out of Georgie's grip.

"... you find out who you were talking to, dumbass," he finally says, and Georgie snorts.

"How do we do that, genius?" She teases, pulling away from Jon's window.

Tim looks thoughtful for once in his life, which is rare coming from him. The Stoker family is not one for thinking before taking action, for the most part, which is what led to their father's untimely demise, or so the story goes. One Thursday morning, Timothy Stoker went outside to find his father dead by the barn and the brothers were told to stay away from the property in his will. Friday morning, their mother fell asleep and would not wake up. Saturday morning, Tim stole the keys to their father's BMW, and by Monday morning the eldest Stoker brothers refused to speak to each other unless absolutely necessary.

Tim has been rude and awful and thoughtful and so painfully _Tim_ ever since then.

"Well," he says plainly, slowly, as if spelling it out to a toddler, "you go bug the local psychics."

Jon perks up, leaning forward. "I didn't know Henrietta had psychics."

"Saw a flyer downtown," Tim says, sounding unimpressed. "Got the number for you."

He hands Jon a piece of scrap paper with a number hastily scribbled onto it in Tim's awful handwriting, and Jon tucks it into his pockets.

There's a few moments of silence before Jon finally speaks again. "Well, if we're not doing anything else, what say we go find Sasha and get some gelato?"

"We have _class_ ," Georgie protests, but she's already retreating towards Tim's car.

"Tim wasn't going to go anyways, take a sick day," Jon calls after her, and she just sighs and shakes her head. He turns his attention to Tim again. "You really think the psychic will know something?"

Tim shrugs. "Worth a try, boss. I don't really care either way." He pauses, glancing away before continuing, "Nathan's got a date tonight."

Jon wrinkles his nose. That means he'll be poking about the usual haunts all day in an attempt to find Tim to warn him away for the evening, and Tim will want to show up wherever Nathan is regardless, and Danny will be upset no matter what happens, and Jon will have to find some way to keep them apart.

"I was going to suggest we go to Nino's, but if you had other plans…" he says instead, and Tim snorts.

"Sure. He won't find us there," he says drily.

Jon huffs incredulously as Tim goes back to his car and says something to Georgie, who barks a laugh, and then they're pulling back onto the highway and Jon has to hurry to fall in behind them, the Pig roaring to life after a moment of struggling with the engine.

It's the first lead Jon's had in a while, and he's excited to follow up on it. He's been coasting by on scraps of information about ley lines, historical accounts of rituals, and vague mythology surrounding various gods for so long, and it feels good to have something concrete, something he can point to and say _this was strange._ He's still not sure what he's searching for, but everything he's found about gods of observation and _watching_ have pointed to places all over the world, and Henrietta is just his latest stop on the adventure.

Of course, there's also the fact that this is the longest he's stayed in one place since Ireland, but that's irrelevant.

It's just… Henrietta looks like a place where magic could happen.

It feels like _home_.

Not any kind of home Jon is used to. Not the cold, impersonal hallways of his childhood home, where he had a large room all to himself and he hardly saw his parents. Not the warm, claustrophobic closeness of his grandmother's old cottage. Not the various boarding schools and friends' homes he's stayed in as he goes around Europe and America, hoping and searching and _yearning_ for more, _more, **more.**_

**__**_What are you searching for?_ An elderly professor asks him like he's thirteen again, and Jon's fingers curl around the steering wheel.

He doesn't know what he's trying to find. But there's something missing, something he has to find, and every part of him says it's here, this town, it has something to do with it.

He hasn't found it yet. He doesn't know what it _is_ , but he's going to find it.

He _needs_ to find it.

He was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time for this piece of evidence. He was lucky enough to be able to stay in the old, abandoned factory he called home. He was lucky enough to have the money to finish school at Magnus. He was lucky enough to have these people.

For now he can focus on the short-term. He and Tim and Georgie and Sasha will go out for pizza later, and Sasha won't eat any and Georgie will demand she pays instead of letting Jon do it, and Tim will pay while the two of them argue, and if they're very, _very_ lucky, Nathan will not show up with his new girlfriend to ruin everything.

Jon thinks he's quite tired of depending on luck. Perhaps it's time he went out and made his own.


	4. iii. martin

"Come in," Annabelle says nastily, in a way that makes the hair on the back of Martin's neck rise, and the man steps over the threshold of the door.

He's tall, thin, objectively pretty handsome, a distant part of Martin thinks (a part he doesn't listen to, most of the time). He's wearing a sweater vest, which immediately throws Martin off, because how can a middle aged man in a sweater vest be _threatening_. And then Martin sees his eyes, and understands why Annabelle was so reluctant to let him inside.

His eyes are _weird._

They're bright blue, and the longer Martin looks, the harder it is to find anything wrong with them. They look fairly normal, just an uncommonly bright blue, but there's a prickling wrongness that sets along his spine and an intensity that feels like far too much for simple human eyes.

Martin isn't sure if the man is the only thing looking through those eyes, the longer he looks at them. The man hardly pays him any mind, which is… normal, for the most part, but it still makes Martin uneasy, the way the man looks at Annabelle and his mother.

Angelica eyes him warily. "How can we help you?"

"This is a place of business, isn't it?" He says, voice icy and smooth in a way that makes Martin bristle.

Annabelle grits her teeth, but before she can say anything, one of the steps creaks, and the four of them look to the stairs to see Agnes standing there.

Many people think Agnes is a child, or a ghost, or not a person at all. Her eyes are black, filled with an ashy depth, like smoke against the night sky--blocking out any light from the stars or moon. Her hair, a dark, rich red, is long and straight, yet incredibly frizzy and fluffy, drifting around her shoulders. It almost looks alive, like it is a separate being altogether.

Then, of course, there is the burning. The wood of the bannister sizzles where she sets her hand on it, and the man's gaze flicks to the darkened wood beneath her palm. Angelica sighs through her teeth, but the intensity of the man's gaze recedes a bit, and Martin understands all at once that Agnes' touch is a silent threat.

Her slippered feet finally hit the floor, and she pulls a deck of cards out--hers are hand-made, thin strips of stone, Martin isn't sure how she actually made them. They're just a bit thicker than paper-thin, with intricate carvings on each one. Her touch is feather-light, and Martin knows the cards will be far warmer by the time she is done.

"Would you like a triple reading?" Agnes asks in a way that makes it more of an instruction, the question mark an imperative addition to the end of her sentence.

Annabelle gives Agnes a look that clearly says _him?_ and Angelica gives Agnes a look that clearly says _are you crazy?_ and they both give each other a look that says _makes sense_ , and Martin knows that this is a Very Important Thing that is about to happen here.

"How much would it cost?" The man asks, and his tone has the same feel that it is not so much of a question, but more of a statement that he would.

Agnes thinks for a moment, gaze drifting to Angelica and Annabelle. "One hundred-fifty," she finally says, and the man scowls.

"That much?"

She levels him with her burning gaze. "Your ilk owes mine."

Martin doesn't know what's going on, exactly, but the dramatics are right up his alley, and he watches with bated breath as the man's lip curls.

"Fine," he says in a way that very much implies he'd like to be spitting the words. "One hundred-fifty it is."

Agnes smiles softly, a gentle, blurred thing that seems more threatening than anything. Angelica finally cuts back in, all business.

"Would you mind if my son was in the room for the reading? He makes predictions clearer." She rests a hand on Martin's shoulder, fingers curling around it protectively.

The man hardly gives Martin a second glance. "That's fine."

Well, fine. That was fine. Martin doesn't particularly want those creepy eyes staring at him, anyways.

The three women of Fox Way lead the man into the dining room, Angelica taking her place at the head of the table. Annabelle and Agnes sit on both sides of her, and the man raises an eyebrow as he slips into a chair. Martin hovers behind his mother, leaning on the back of her chair.

Angelica's cards are an old, well-worn, well-loved traditional Rider-Waite deck. The colors are faded, the edges worn down by years of use. She begins to shuffle, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Do you have a question in mind?"

He hesitates, and Agnes speaks again. "We can do a general life spread."

Annabelle's lips twist into a thin line as she pulls out her cards, a deck adorned with images of spiderwebs and eight eyes and silvery threads of fate. Martin has always liked her cards.

Agnes' cards clink against each other quietly as she shuffles, still watching the man, even as she lays down her cards.

Martin reaches to clasp his mother's hand, and she squeezes it a bit.

"You've lost something," Angelica begins, looking up from the cards now spread across the table. "Something important to you."

The man tilts his head, looking down at the cards--not just look, but _Look_ , with a capital L, in a way that makes Martin's stomach twist uncomfortably. Agnes' fingers curl along the wood of the table threateningly, just ghosting over the surface as to not horribly scorch the wood, and his gaze drifts back up, eyes narrowing at her.

"I've lost… many things," he finally says, leaning back in his chair.

"You're searching for something, too," Annabelle says, voice nasty and calm as she levels the man with her gaze. "You've been searching for it for a very long time."

"Yes," the man snaps. "Do I find it?"

There is one set of three cards that is the same in the reading. The three women of Fox Way look at the cards, as does the man, and Martin realizes that it's the Page of Cups, staring up from each card.

Angelica has always compared him to the Page of Cups. They had such similar faces, and nearly identical eyes, and were _so full of potential, just like you!_ Three copies of Martin's eyes stare up from the cards, and Angelica stands up so abruptly Martin has to jerk backwards as to not get hit.

"The reading's done," she says flatly, and the man blinks.

"Excuse me?" He says, already moving to stand.

"You heard her," Annabelle snarls, clearly confused as to why Angelica is being aggressive, but _delighted_ that she is.

"Get out," Angelica says, gathering up her cards.

"I-"

" _Out!_ " Angelica snaps, slamming a hand against the table, and the man doesn't so much as flinch, though he steps back.

He eyes her angrily as he leaves, and Annabelle hurries to the window to look at his car before he can drive away.

Martin looks at Agnes, bewildered, and she just smiles softly at him.

"Elias is playing with things he doesn't understand," she says quietly, and Martin blinks.

"You know him?" Agnes just looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Not particularly." She sighs, collecting her cards. "Oh well. At least he left the money."

"I got his license plate number," Annabelle says, slinking back into the dining room with Angelica in tow.

"Get his social security number next," Agnes says, and Martin can't be sure if it was a joke or not. Angelica snorts, amused, which gives him enough of an answer.

The women put their cards away, and it almost looks like they're going to begin conversing about what just happened--well, Annabelle and Angelica would converse, and Agnes would listen--but then they seem to remember all at once that Martin is there.

"Martin, if you _ever_ see that man again, you just walk away from him." Angelica's tone is firm. "Understand?"

"No," Annabelle says. "Knee him where it counts, then _run_ away from him, and don't stop running."


	5. iv. georgie

She really ought to be in school right now, part of Georgie snaps, the voice in the back of her mind that argues _we can't afford to miss class again,_ the voice that talks about absences and money and _opportunity._

Georgie glances down at her watch, an old, battered thing--a gift from Jon, back before she stopped accepting those from the people she surrounded herself with. Friends, they were friends, but Georgie didn't need Jon's sympathy or Tim's superiority or Sasha's pity. Just because Magnus Academy was for the rich didn't mean Georgie couldn't take advantage of it.

She had made it here on her own. Scholarships. Jobs. She hadn't asked her parents for any money at all, had to tiptoe around the money with them so it wouldn't fuel rent or food or cigarettes or alcohol or her dad's trips into the city--

Georgie kicks a loose pebble in the parking lot of Monmouth Manufacturing, and waits for Tim and Jon to come downstairs.

"What are you thinking about?" Sasha says out of nowhere, because most things she does are out of nowhere.

Her pale, cold hand intertwines their fingers, and Georgie smiles despite herself. "Nothin'."

"You've got that look that says you're upset," Sasha insists, swinging their clasped hands between them like they're children.

Georgie sighs. "I can't skip class too many more times, Sasha."

Sasha nods solemnly, or maybe it's any other myriad of emotions. She's always been hard to read, despite her peppiness. "You've still got time before first period starts."

It's a statement. Delivered with indifference. Sasha does not care what Georgie does, in the end. She hardly attends class--or at least has all different classes. Georgie has never been sure. She doesn't think she's ever seen Sasha doing homework.

"... Yeah, I do," Georgie says, a statement delivered with indifference. "Think you can take care of the boys while I'm in class?"

Sasha barks a laugh. "You say that like they can't take care of themselves."

Georgie grins, and Sasha traces her thumb across the back of their entwined hands in three arcing lines. "You say that as if we've forgotten what happened last time we left them alone."

Sasha groans, burying her face in Georgie's shoulder. "Don't remind me. Monmouth smelled like blue cheese for _weeks_."

"Hence why I'm never moving in with you three."

Sasha giggles, giving Georgie's shoulder a playful shove as she straightens back up. "Alright. You're going?"

Georgie sighs, giving Sasha's hand a quick squeeze before letting go. "I guess I am. You'll all be alright without me?"

"We'll be just fine," Sasha says with an easygoing smile, giving Georgie a peck on the cheek, the perfect image of an affectionate best friend. Georgie snorts, tugging on Sasha's ponytail playfully before stretching and grabbing her backpack from the back of Tim's car.

"Have fun with the boys," she says, and starts towards Magnus Academy.

It's strange, their little group they've gotten together, she thinks. A British student come to the States--originally Jon had said he'd come for the academic opportunity, but he'd dropped the pretense as soon as he told Georgie and Tim the real story. He'd managed to make fast friends with the resident delinquent and the top student of Magnus's sophomore class, two of the most different people in the world. Sasha had shown up somewhere along the way, and…

Here they are. She curls one hand around the strap of her bag, smiling softly to herself, though unease settles in her stomach and coils around her heart.

Something in her gut tells her that today is going to be a Day, that she should not be leaving them like this.

Georgie presses on.

* * *

So far, today has not been a Day. Georgie puts in an awful lot of effort to keep herself from staring out the window as Mr. Bouchard goes on about Latin. She's supposed to be taking notes, anyways, for Jon.

She gazes towards the window, though her attention is drawn back into the classroom as Mr. Bouchard falls silent and the door opens. She glances over, then does a double-take when she realizes _Tim_ is slinking through the door. Jon is not behind him.

It's very much like Tim to get to class halfway through, Georgie supposes, although it's more like him to not show his face at all. Bouchard frowns at him, and Tim just smiles leisurely, saluting at the teacher before striding towards Georgie and dropping into the empty desk beside her. She quirks an eyebrow, silently asking _where's Jon?_

He shrugs, which Georgie takes as a very clear _don't know, don't care._

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Ms. Barker, Mr. Stoker?" Bouchard says, and Tim bares his teeth in a grin at the man.

_"Comederitis de's rat labem,"_ he says, and Bouchard wrinkles his nose. Georgie doesn't need to translate it to know that Tim is being a piece of shit. She elbows him in the side.

Bouchard goes back to writing on the board, and Georgie keeps her voice low as she leans towards Tim. "Why are you here?"

Tim looks affronted. "To get a fulfilling education?"

Georgie snorts. "Yeah, right, sorry, of course, because you're so well-known for attending class."

Tim huffs, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. "Jon and Sasha are at the library, and I _never_ miss Latin."

That's true--it's the one class Tim seems to… not enjoy, but he's good at it, and it's the only class Georgie consistently sees him in. He only ever shows up in other classes to piss off the teacher, but with Latin he shows up both to piss off the teacher _and_ to do all the work. Mr. Bouchard seems to hate him, as do the rest of the faculty, but Tim _does_ do the work, and he seems to respect that at the very least.

Georgie just shrugs at Tim and returns to taking notes for Jon, though she finds herself gazing out the window more and more often, mind drifting back to Jon and Sasha and the little quest the four of them have gotten themselves wrapped up in.

"Ms. Barker?" Georgie jumps as Bouchard raps his knuckles against her desk. Tim shoots him a glare, which he pointedly ignores.

"Yes?" She says, plastering on the polite pleasantness she needs to get by in this damned school.

"Please try to pay more attention," Bouchard says, suspicion softening into irritation. Georgie nods, smiling apologetically.

"Sorry," she says, but he's already turned away.

Tim rolls his eyes and makes an inappropriate gesture at Mr. Bouchard while his back is turned, and Georgie fights down a cackle, smothering her snickers with one hand.

Her notes are haphazard and unorganized for the rest of class, as her mind continues to drift back to her band of merry men.

* * *

**georgie uwu - 3:04 P.M.**

Hey where are u?

**Jon - 3:05 P.M.**

The library downtown. Why?

**georgie uwu - 3:05 P.M.**

Still? damn

Oh tim and i were probably going to meet up with you guys

Since class is out

Which u know

**Jon - 3:06 P.M.**

Yes, thanks for all the extra information.

Sasha's getting bored, we're probably going to head back to Monmouth.

To prepare for whatever Stoker family drama is going to occur tonight.

So we'll meet you there.

**georgie uwu - 3:06 P.M.**

Yeah dont let sasha ruin any books

U know how she gets

**Jon - 3:07 P.M.**

She's already drawn a dick on two.

**georgie uwu - 3:07 P.M.**

Jesus christ lmao

Tim and i will meet u two at monmouth then

**Jon - 3:08 P.M.**

Sounds good.

See you there.


End file.
